


Smooth Unsteady

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [5]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alluded to, Established Relationship, Feelings, Intimacy, Lingerie, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Relationship Negotiation, Rimming, Sexual exploration, Sort Of, Waxing, What Have I Done, accidental praise kink, accidental sub space, buzzed jim, handjobs, mild sub drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:44:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Jim goes out of town, and Oswald spends an inordinate amount of time planning a surprise for his return.





	Smooth Unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> This took so long, omg. I got waylaid by a house project and I was writing here and there all week. I swear to God if I never see a drywall putty knife again, it'll be too soon. Anyway, here are all the pieces in the story:
> 
> Oswald’s favorite camisole set: <https://xdress.com/collections/mens-camisoles/products/polka-dot-camisole?variant=34521070019>
> 
>  
> 
> His surprise outfit for Jim:
> 
> Panties: <https://xdress.com/collections/new-male-lingerie/products/the-midnight-starry-thong?variant=5285677072425>
> 
> Skirt Garter Combo: <https://xdress.com/collections/mens-bras-and-garter-belts/products/tartan-garter-skirt?variant=28474217027>
> 
> Pink Corset: <https://xdress.com/collections/mens-corsets/products/pink-corset-for-men?variant=5300114227241>
> 
> Thigh Highs: <https://xdress.com/collections/mens-socks-and-hosiery/products/seamed-stockings?variant=28474777091>
> 
> Lipstick: <https://www.jeanjail.com.au/product/lotus-cream-lipstick/30976>
> 
>  

Oswald is perusing the shelves at Walgreen’s when the display catches his eye. He rarely does his own shopping anymore, but he and Jim are running short on supplies. Yet another problem Oswald never thought he’d have. Oswald bites his bottom lip, considering, as he finishes grabbing the items on his list. Certainly, it’s not the first time the idea has crossed his mind, but it is harder to push along as a fleeting thought when the correct supplies are suddenly before him. He thinks of his latest lingerie order, set to arrive tomorrow, then imagines Jim’s reaction. Suddenly, he is moving toward the display and selecting the necessary products.

Oswald makes his purchases, feeling giddy in a way he hasn’t since finding a forgotten pair of dry-cleaned panties stapled to his freshly pressed suit. He takes his things to the car, places them carefully into a hidden compartment under the seat and smiles like a Cheshire Cat as they head toward his first meeting. Though the items are out of sight, they continue to play on his mind.

He finds himself becoming distracted throughout the day, contemplating the weekend ahead. It’s currently Thursday and Jim is out of town until Saturday, testifying in a case against a prisoner extradited to Chicago. Oswald misses Jim, unquestionably, but his temporary absence presents a rare opportunity to arrange a nice surprise. Not to mention the privacy to try something he’s been contemplating ever since reading about manscaping in one of Jim’s _GQ_ magazines.

Apparently shaving wasn’t considered odd for men, unlike some of Oswald’s so-called peculiarities. Why is it okay to like some of the same things as women, but not others?

“Penguin,” Butch is saying. “Are you paying attention?”

Oswald blinks, then rolls his eyes. Was he listening to Butch drone on about his upcoming appointment with Strange and how happy Tabitha is going to be? _Please._ Oswald snorts. He hates that woman, but until he can arrange her murder, addressing it is a waste of energy. “Yes, yes. He’s meeting with you tomorrow. Congratulations. Do you have my package or not?”

Butch sighs, put out, but reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a very thick manila envelope. Oswald smiles as he takes it in hand, opens it up and withdraws Butch’s collection fee. “Business is good, it seems.”

“For a change,” the burly man concedes, adjusting his cap to better obscure his pale face from any would-be onlookers. “It’ll be better when people stop screaming in my face when I do the rounds.”

“You’re sure you want to go back to the old you? Won’t it be boring not being able to throw people through walls?”

Butch gives him a flat look and Oswald raises his hands placatingly. “Fine, fine. Worth a shot. Grundy tends to get higher tips, is all I’m saying.”

He gets narrowed eyes for that particular comment as Butch replies, “I think we’ll manage, bird brain.”

“Please,” Oswald fairly hisses. “Remind me who it was that engineered this meeting between yourself and the notorious doctor after your first plan failed so magnificently, hmm?”

Butch sighs. “ _You_ , I know, and if this works—anything you need, Penguin, you got it.”

Oswald grins. It’s nice to have at least one loyal ally. If only his taste in women weren’t so abysmal. It seems to be a trend with the men in his life. Oswald would say he has a type, but he’s never wanted to model his underwear for Butch.

Some of his distaste at the thought must show on his face, because Butch gives him a bemused look. “What?”

Oswald shakes his head. “Trust me, friend, you don’t want to know.” He stands from his seat at the bar of the newly re-opened Iceberg Lounge. “If that’s all for now, I have a very important dinner engagement.”

Butch sniggers. “Hot date, huh?”

It’s Oswald’s turn to glare, but otherwise doesn’t dignify that particular bait with an answer. “Goodbye, Butch. Good luck with,” he waves his fingers to encompass Butch’s current state, “ _that_. See you on the other side.”

***

In truth, Oswald does not have any major plans for dinner and should probably have stayed to oversee the preparations for Friday night’s guest performer. He does, however, have a scheduled phone call with Jim which will require seclusion lest one of his employees overhear anything sensitive. The two of them rarely exchange texts on a personal level as an added measure of protection to ensure their continued privacy.

Still, Oswald is finding it difficult to resist this week. He and Jim have been exchanging intimacies for a little over nine months now, and while Oswald understands the need for their continued secrecy, there are times when it can be incredibly frustrating. Times like now, when Oswald misses his detective terribly and would very much like to send him a simple text. Or ten.

Maybe a picture of himself wearing something a little risqué. Nothing that would show his face or give away his identity, but something that would ensure Jim is thinking of Oswald too. This desire reminds Oswald of his earlier purchases, and he forgoes his typical fare for dinner in favor of a hasty sandwich.

He just can’t seem to turn off whatever impulse it is driving him to explore this new fixation. Oswald doesn’t want to be distracted while on the phone with Jim, so he goes about his preparations quickly, but thoroughly. He collects the few articles containing ‘tips and tricks’ he’s managed to find and secret away beneath his side of the mattress. He then starts the water to the bath as he pulls an antique wooden footstool up to the side of the tub to set up his instructions and supplies, all within easy reach.

Oswald’s bath is ready quickly enough, and he is more than happy to settle in for a much-needed soak as he re-reads the tips he’d highlighted in _GQ._ According to the article, Oswald needs to test a patch of skin to make sure he doesn’t react badly to the wax, and also to see if he can withstand the pain. Somehow, he thinks, as he glances at his scarred leg and ankle, pain isn’t going to be an issue here.

Oswald reaches for one of the hand towels draped over the rack above the tub. He rests his left leg on the rim and dries it off, before reaching over to the stool and plucking a cold-wax strip from the box. He warms the strip up by rubbing it between his hands in accordance with the instructions, applies it to the inside of his leg, just above the ankle. He lets it sit for the required time—only a few seconds—before ripping it off quickly.

“Ack!” Oswald’s shout echoes in the bathroom, and then he can’t help himself from giggling because…that’s it? Really? He was surprised by the level of pain he felt, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the articles suggested. He makes a face at the used strip, his wiry black hairs standing at attention, before tossing it into the plastic bag from Walgreen’s. He examines the skin next, and notices that yes, the strips work and what’s more, his skin appears to be suffering no adverse effects. Carefully, he swipes over the now bare patch of skin with baby oil, satisfied when the waxy residue comes off easily.

He is going to empty the shelves at every drugstore, knowing he must have gotten lucky. Many of the articles he read beforehand often warned of hard to remove residue, and patchy removal. Or, perhaps, it is simply that he already has much less hair than a lot of the featured men with ‘before’ pictures in the magazine. Either way, Oswald already can’t stop running his fingers over the silky-smooth skin he just uncovered.  He isn’t looking forward to repeating the process on his more sensitive areas, but after seeing such promising results from the initial test, he is doubly determined to see this endeavor through.

***

Hair removal is a time-consuming process, but Oswald judges it well spent when, later, he runs his hands over miles and miles of his own bare skin. He set out to only remove all the hair below the waist, but he soon found himself waxing his armpits, chest and even his arms. He worries the arms might have been too much until he steps in front of the mirror wearing his favorite camisole and pantie set, black with polka dots and white lace trim.

 _What witchcraft is this?_ He thinks giddily.

He imagined the results would be subtler, but the absence of hair throws the lines of his body into stark definition. His thighs appear more curvaceous than lean, whereas the visible areas of his chest above the swooping neck of the camisole seem more angular, explicitly masculine, and Oswald finds the dichotomy highly flattering. He pushes the bikini panties down to free his hairless groin and testicles and has to concede that certain things certainly do appear larger.

He doesn’t have time to throw on a robe before his cell phone is ringing and Oswald hastily tucks himself back into his panties before limping to retrieve it from the bedside table. He flips it open as he throws back the blankets on his side of the bed and settles comfortably with his back up against the pillows.

“Good evening, detective,” he politely greets, feigning a nonchalance he definitely doesn’t feel, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He can hear the answering smile in Jim’s voice. “Miss me yet?”

“Come now, James,” Oswald playfully chastises, “you know that I do.”

“I miss you too,” Jim responds, and Oswald can hear the sound of papers shuffling. Likely, Jim will be pouring over his notes every day to ensure he presents the most accurate testimony. “What did you do today?”

Oswald smirks, the urge to tell Jim exactly what he’d been up to is strong, but he would rather it be a surprise for when they’re in person. “Nothing horribly illegal, I assure you.”

“ _Oz_ ,” Jim reprimands.

“How’s your trial going? Is the justice system proving less faulty in Chicago?”

Jim snorts. “Same shit, different city. You know, I almost took a position here before I came back to Gotham.”

“Say it isn’t so,” Oswald decries. “You’re far too good for Chicago.”

“According to you, maybe.”

“My opinion is the only one that counts, Jim,” Oswald replies haughtily. “Besides, there’s no toll roads in Gotham. Unless you enjoy literal highway robbery? Although, I will confess the idea did cross my mind a time or two while I was mayor. Would have been a great way to launder money; government sanctioned and everything.”

He hears Jim guffaw, then erupt into peals of chagrined chuckles. Oswald enjoys making Jim laugh at things he knows he oughtn’t, particularly regarding Oswald’s illustrious criminal escapades.

“I knew you were up to something,” Jim says when he sobers again.

Oswald smiles self-deprecatingly. “Trying to woo an idiot, mostly.”

Jim knows quite a bit of the history between himself and Ed, and what Oswald hasn’t told him expressly, he’s certain the detective has inferred. He curses himself for bringing it up the second the words leave his mouth. It’s just, now that Oswald has someone to confide in, he finds it difficult to filter himself.

Jim’s voice seems a bit strained as he inevitably asks, “Do you still love him?”

Oswald sucks in a breath, then lets it out with a heavy sigh. This conversation has gone off the rails, but Oswald finds that, actually, he wants to talk about it. How strange to have someone who will listen without judgement or motive.

“In a way,” Oswald admits, licking his lips, “but not how I thought at the time. After mother died, Ed…helped me. Did I tell you, I had planned to leave Gotham?”

Oswald can feel himself getting upset, the pain of Ed’s betrayal and the swift rush of early memories are not as easy to recount aloud as they are to simply ponder.

“No,” Jim replies.

Oswald sniffs. “I wanted out. I wanted nothing more to do with Gotham—actually, considered Chicago as well—but Ed told me something I hadn’t considered before, and he was so…vehement, that I believed him.”

Ever the detective, Jim asks, “What did he say?” 

“You won’t like it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Oswald huffs. “He told me that love makes men like he and I weak. That my mother’s death freed me.” He swallows thickly. “It angered me, at first, but in my grief…I thought he must be right. Of course, it couldn’t stick. I’m not very good at denying my feelings and despite popular opinion, I actually am capable of...love. I—”

Oswald breaks off. He doesn’t like talking about these things, doesn’t like remembering all the ways in which his depths were tested and found lacking. He doesn’t want to make Jim uncomfortable, despite the man’s assurances that he loves Oswald.

“Oswald?” Jim gets his attention. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

In any other situation, Oswald would take the out without a backwards glance. It feels, however, that how he answers this is important. He needs Jim to understand the difference between their relationship, and what Oswald experienced with Ed.

“No,” Oswald demurs, pulling his blankets a bit higher. “I don’t love Ed, Jim. What I am attempting, and failing, to say is that I was attracted to Ed, dependent on him in ways I have never been on anyone, but what I felt at the time wasn’t authentic. He came to me when I was at my lowest, and he used me to create himself. The more time that passes, the more I’m convinced that I was _never_ in love with Ed, Jim.

“Of course, at the time, I had nothing to compare it to. I just never thought anyone could accept me, but Ed did and more—he encouraged me. I think I fell in love with the idea of him, but it’s nothing like what I feel for you. I just…sometimes, I miss his friendship. I wish…Well, I wish I hadn’t been so foolish.”

He turns Jim’s question around on him, “Do you still love Lee?”

“In a way,” Jim answers, echoing Oswald’s earlier phrasing. “She isn’t the same person anymore but, once upon a time, she represented everything I thought I should want.” Jim pauses, then says, “Thing is—that white picket-fence future you like to tease me about—that’s not really who I am either.”

“No?” Oswald inquires, surprised at Jim’s admission. “Then who are you really, James Gordon?”

There’s a beat of silence, then: “I’m the guy who wants to get the hell out of Chicago, so he can go home and make love to his kingpin boyfriend.”

Oswald’s jaw has dropped, and it takes him a moment to recover. When he does, he is all coy excitement. “Why, my dear James, how brazenly forward of you.”

“More forward than _this_?” Jim’s voice, pitched low the way it always sounds when he’s spewing filth into Oswald’s ear, makes him shiver. “What’re you wearing?”

Oswald smiles, and he’s tempted to take the bait, but he’d much rather let the anticipation build. Let Jim suffer just a little bit, so he’s just as innervated as Oswald surely will be when they reunite on Saturday.

“I could tell you, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Oswald teases.

“Surprise, huh?” Jim asks, clearly intrigued. “What kind of surprise?”

“I’m suddenly very tired.” Oswald feigns a yawn. “I think it’s time we said our goodbyes, darling.”

 “You’re killing me, here,” Jim groans.

“You have no idea,” Oswald taunts, running his open palm over his newly hairless thighs. “But you will. A day after tomorrow.”

He gets a sigh, but Jim relents. “Fine, but now I’m gonna be distracted when I take the stand tomorrow.”

“You’re nothing if not a consummate professional, Jim,” Oswald argues. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” They share a companionable moment of silence, before they say their goodbyes.

Oswald still thrills when he tells Jim ‘I love you.’

And Jim replies, “I love you too, Oz.”

***

Saturday finally rolls around, and Oswald is so keenly aware of the passage of time that the morning and afternoon seem to dredge on for an eternity. Oswald is fairly vibrating as the clock approaches four, second-guessing himself about everything—the lingerie style, the new accessories, the waxing—concerned that it is all together, possibly, over-the-top.

Oswald’s new selection of lingerie had arrived yesterday as scheduled, and he has since spent more time than he is comfortable admitting vacillating between giddiness and doubt. On one hand, Oswald has tried it on and is of the opinion that surely Jim will be thrilled. On the other hand, the last time Oswald purchased something to wear for someone else’s enjoyment, it ended with crushing disappointment and a hole in the chest. In a roundabout sort of way, anyhow.

It’s not just the lingerie, however, is the thing. After Jim brought home lipstick, Oswald considered that perhaps Jim has unplumbed depths regarding his sexuality and potential preferences. Pondering that potential had ultimately led him to making some impulsive choices, which he is steadily developing a complex over. Or, a healthy amount of hesitation, more like.

Oswald bites nervously at his thumb nail as he eyes the outfit—sheer black panties with a hot pink firework design embroidered on the front and a partial thong in the back, a pink corset that will wrap around his waist but leave his chest on open display, and finally, a hot pink flannel-pattern mini-skirt with a black lace hem and garters attached underneath alongside a pair of sheer black thigh-highs. He’d even ordered a lovely shade of pink lipstick to match.

Oswald is either going to blow Jim’s mind…

Or break it.

His attention focuses in on the hosiery. He’d never considered the option of pantyhose, though he’s seen it artfully displayed in his catalogues often enough, until the miniskirt had caught his attention. He’s never worn garters either, but something about the skirt struck a chord and Oswald found himself writing the item number onto the order form. He’d debated, momentarily, just cutting off the straps but, ever curious, had instead written down the number for a tasteful set of thigh-highs as well. If he didn’t like how they looked or felt, he’d cut off the straps and toss them out.

Oswald loves them.

Not only do they feel soft against his bare legs, but they also obscure so much of his right leg that he can almost pretend the damage isn’t there at all. Oswald already filled out an order for more, deciding that if Jim doesn’t like them, he will simply wear them when he is alone. Or, on a day to day basis, though he isn’t sure how he’d pass them off as fancy men’s socks.

Jim’s plane landed at four-thirty, and while he’d texted that Harvey was dragging him out for a drink, Oswald needs to hurry up and decide already. Go for broke, or…

Or what?

Ease Jim into it?

He shakes his head. As if Jim isn’t already waist deep in Oswald’s panty collection. “Get a grip,” Oswald chastises himself. He’d promised Jim a surprise, and that is precisely what his detective is going to get. Finally resolved, he snatches up the panties first, and pulls them on, followed by the thigh-highs. These, he takes his time with as it takes quite a bit of flexibility and patience to carefully maneuver his bad leg into its stocking, and Oswald would rather not risk a run in his haste. The skirt comes on next, the garters rather simple to attach.

Lastly, Oswald works himself into the corset. It’s a light pink satin, coordinating with the lighter shades in the skirt, and simple in design. There are strings in the back, but they’re decorative rather than functional, obscuring the elastic backing from view and adding a flare of delicacy. Oswald tied them yesterday, into a cute bow his mother used to work into her dresses, so now all he has to do is fasten the tiny gold buttons up the front.

He throws on his oversize robe, the one his father had given him, pleased when it covers him to his ankles. He hides his nylon-clad feet in a pair of slippers, tucks his new lipstick into a pocket and makes his way downstairs. He is pouring himself a second glass of wine—liquid courage, as they say—when the bell rings.

That reminds Oswald of the other surprise he’d gotten Jim. Though, he is far less certain of how it will play than he is of what he’s got on under the robe at current. Oswald casts the thought aside for now, as he approaches the door. He doesn’t manage to so much as open it halfway before Jim is pushing through the entry and closing it behind them. All the better to grab Oswald and spin him around so Jim can pin him against the door and kiss him silly.

Oswald snaps out of his shock quickly enough, wrapping his arms around Jim’s neck and giving back in equal measure. Jim’s hands start around his back—a nice brace to ensure he didn’t hurt Oswald when he threw him up against the entrance—then move to cradle his face, then to thread through his hair and down his neck, until they skirt around the folds of his robe. Oswald breaks the kiss at that, giving Jim a shrewd look of reproach.

“You haven’t even properly greeted me, James,” Oswald chastises, “and you’re already trying to get into my panties. Have you no manners at all?”

“Sure, I did,” Jim argues. “Ain’t I ever kissed you hello before, baby?”

Oswald snorts. “Someone’s been hitting the sauce, haven’t we?”

“Yeah? You taste like Sauvignon,” Jim accuses.

Oswald grins, places a slow, chaste kiss on hips lips.

Jim leans into it, pressing their foreheads together when it ends. He smiles at Oswald, then, eyes bright and a little glassy from the whiskey Oswald tasted on his tongue. “Hi,” Jim finally says.

Oswald closes his eyes, somewhat overwhelmed by the reality of Jim being his in this way, nuzzles his nose against Jim’s as he replies. “Hello, Jim.”

“Missed you,” Jim confesses. “I wanted to come straight home, but Harvey wouldn’t let me get out of going to the bar for a couple rounds.”

“I missed you too,” Oswald replies, then raises his nose imperiously. “Where’s my souvenir?”

Jim grins toothily and huffs a quiet chuckle as he breaks their embrace to bend down and retrieve his bag. “Come on,” he says, leading the way to the parlor. “Let me dig it out.”

Oswald follows him, quietly surprised. He’d been kidding about the souvenir, but his heart is working overtime causing his face to flush with delight. Jim’s little, unexpected gestures always catch him off guard, each one a quiet affirmation of love that Oswald never dreamed would be his. It makes his head swim and his feet feel light.

Cloud nine, indeed.

Oswald watches, spellbound by the figure Jim casts kneeling in front of the fireplace, as he rummages through his haphazardly packed bag to retrieve a small, neatly wrapped box. Jim hands it to him, and it takes Oswald a moment to snap out of his daze and take it.

“I was only teasing,” Oswald admits, shyly.

Jim smiles, brazenly climbing into his lap and bracketing Oswald’s hands with his own. “Just open it.”

Oswald does, carefully. His mother always liked to save the paper. She would keep it with cards and bows from birthdays and holidays throughout the year. Some might call it hoarding, but his mother had a deep sentimentality, preferring to save mementos of happy occasions. It’s habit, more than anything, that makes him so diligent as he frees the box from its wrapper.

It’s dark blue, and square, with no outward markings or clues as to what it is. Oswald curiously pops the lid and is instantly delighted. It’s a tiny snow globe from the Shedd Aquarium, and inside it is a little magellanic penguin wearing a blue scarf, holding a shiny red pebble. There’s an inscription on the front that reads: ‘I Get a Pang-In My Heart Whenever We’re Apart.’

“Oh, Jim,” Oswald laughs. “It’s hideous.”

Jim grins proudly. “You love it.”

Oswald nods, glancing up at him from under his lashes. “Yes.”

There’s a roguish glint in Jim’s eyes when he says, “So…you got to unwrap your present.” Jim runs his hands down the lapels of Oswald’s robe, asks, “When do I get to open mine?”  

“Fair is fair, I suppose.”  Oswald makes a shooing motion. “Up.”

Jim obliges easily, leaning in to give Oswald a quick peck before hopping out of his lap. He offers Oswald a hand up, which he happily takes, then Jim’s fingers go immediately to the knotted belt of the robe. Oswald holds up a halting hand.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. Jim complies with an over exaggerated sigh and a grin. Oswald flicks his nose. “Good things come to those who wait, Jim.”

“That’s gotta be be blasphemy, coming from you,” Jim shoots back, but he keeps his eyes closed so Oswald lets him get away with his impudence.

Oswald retrieves his new lipstick from his pocket and carefully smooths it over his lips, thinking perhaps he should acquire a compact mirror in future. He then caps the tube quietly when he’s finished and tucks it back away as he slips off his house shoes and gently kicks them under the couch behind him.

“Alright, Jim,” Oswald says, taking a fortifying breath.

Jim opens his eyes, gets a look at Oswald’s new lipstick, and sucks in a quick breath. He raises a hand to Oswald’s face, palm resting open against his jaw, so he can run his thumb just under Oswald’s bottom lip. “That’s real pretty, Oz,” he says, blue eyes slowly lowering to the belt of Oswald’s robe before raising again—asking permission.

Oswald swallows, suddenly extremely nervous, but nods. When Jim’s hands return to his waist, however, Oswald seizes his wrists at the last second. “You should—I…” Oswald’s heart is pounding, all of the doubts he’d dismissed earlier rushing forth to rob him of his confidence.

Jim silences him, and all manner of higher thought, by swooping in with a kiss that’s absolutely filthy. Oswald groans when Jim’s tongue forces its way past his lips while his detective’s clever hands slip down and around Oswald’s hips to clutch at his backside. Jim uses his grip to haul Oswald so close that he can feel the hard line of Jim’s arousal pressed against his thigh.

When air becomes necessary, Jim drags his lips away from Oswald’s mouth and sucks a path, instead, along his jaw and neck. “Oz, you could be wearing a trash bag under this robe, and I promise I wouldn’t want you any less. I love your body,” he declares against Oswald’s skin. “I love the person inside it. And I swear to God I’m gonna catch fire if you don’t let me touch you in the next five minutes. Please, I missed you so fucking much, baby.”

Oswald can scarcely think for how Jim’s words make him want. His hands are clinging to the man for dear life, one hand gripping his shoulder while the other braces the back of Jim’s head. His lips tremble, and his eyes water, because he never thought he’d have this with someone. Even in his wildest dreams about Ed, his fantasies tended to trip up whenever he tried to imagine the spaces between platonic affection and sex. Whispered words like this were not something he could fathom.

And Jim…well, he could scarcely dare to imagine it at all. Oswald enjoys being right, has built more than one empire based on his ability to predict behavior, but he is equal parts amazed and grateful for having been so wrong about Jim.

Oswald removes his hand from behind Jim’s neck in favor of guiding one of the hands on his ass to the front of his robes. Jim takes the cue for the permission it is and spares no time in dedicating both hands to the task. Oswald closes his eyes when cool air hits his skin as Jim withdraws just enough to push the heavy robe from his shoulders so that it pools at his feet on the floor.

Jim sucks in an unsteady breath, sharp enough that it startles Oswald into risking a glance at his reaction after all. The first thing he notices is the smeared lipstick under Jim’s bottom lip, but then the rest of Jim’s expression comes into focus and Oswald is met with wide, stricken eyes.

He instinctively folds his arms over his chest, feeling incredibly exposed, as he asks, “Is it too much? I thought maybe—“

He’s brought up short when Jim gracefully drops to a crouch, then forward onto his knees so that he is kneeling at Oswald’s feet. Jim’s hands circle around his ankles lightly before he slowly begins to glide them up toward Oswald’s knees.

“Too much?” Jim parrots his question, exasperated, as he looks up to meet Oswald’s gaze.

“It’s…” Oswald licks his lips, trying to keep his composure but it’s hard to do with Jim looking up at him so adoringly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like it.”

Jim’s brow furrows as he tilts his head, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles around Oswald’s kneecaps. “Do _you_ like it?”

Teeth clenched tightly, Oswald nods quietly unable to explain just how right it feels, how good, how sexy.

“Then it doesn’t matter what I think,” Jim says in reply, before he smiles devilishly. “But, for the record, I like it very much.”

Jim reaches up, then, unwraps Oswald’s arms so he can run his fingers along the newly hairless skin. When he finds Oswald’s hands, he kisses each palm before placing them down on his shoulders and then moving his own hands to where nylon meets the skin of Oswald’s thighs.

“I’ve always liked how this feels,” Jim says, thumbs running just under the elastic tops of the stockings before tracking up the straps of the garters. He follows their path all the way up until he encounters the lace of Oswald’s panties. He gently places the back of his hand just beneath the curve of Oswald’s sack, presses up just slightly.

Oswald sucks in a breath, hands spasming against Jim’s shoulders as he braces himself there. “Jim…”

“Tell me,” Jim continues, ignoring Oswald’s breathy plea, “Did you just do your arms and legs or…”

“Ev—” Oswald has to swallow, his throat dry as Jim leans forward to rub his forehead against Oswald’s left thigh, hair mussing where it rakes against the hem of his skirt. “Everywhere,” he finally manages to reply.

Jim bites his thigh, not hard enough to bruise, but a sensual tease as he drags his lips slowly up, and up. Jim is always so controlled, touches him with such care, that it steals Oswald’s breath for the contrast it represents. They’ve been violent with one another in the past, driven by desperation, grief or their opposing ambitions. From the very start, even when showing Oswald mercy, Jim was unforgivingly physical, and Oswald was just as ruthless and manipulative in turn. Yet, there has always been an undercurrent to their interactions. Oswald remembers telling Jim they had a bond, and it wasn’t untrue, but Oswald thinks perhaps his own naivety kept him from divining its true nature.

Obscured his ability to see the potential for _this_ —a passion that flows between them like a closed circuit. Oswald has a talent for words, an ability to weave several connotations into the simplest of phrases, that Jim claims he himself doesn’t possess. Except as evidenced here, when Jim’s touch writes intricate sonnets against Oswald’s flesh, entirely wordless but imbued with such meaning—possession, desire, reverence.   

Love.

Oswald does not know how he managed to survive so long without it. He cannot fathom what he would have become for never knowing it, or how it is changing him still; Only that he can’t fight it and doesn’t want to. So, he closes his eyes and gives himself over and Oswald may be standing still but Jim _moves_ him.

He buries his fingers in Jim’s hair when he feels wet heat close over the fabric of his panties. He can’t stop his hips from shakily driving forward, but Jim doesn’t complain. Instead, he responds by pushing Oswald’s legs further apart and scooting between them so that Oswald is fairly split over his face. Jim’s head and face is now completely buried under Oswald’s skirt, one hand supporting his bad leg, while the other yanks his underwear to the side so Jim can spear Oswald open on his tongue.

Oswald’s eyes roll up, his head dropping back while his hands clutch at the back of Jim’s shirt in desperation. The position is precarious at best, but Oswald trusts Jim’s strength, has relied on it often enough that he is comfortable losing himself to the pleasure of the man’s mouth. They’re the only two souls in the entire manor, but even if they weren’t, Oswald wouldn’t be able to keep from vocalizing his enjoyment.

Jim’s tongue pierces him over and over, driving Oswald slowly insane until his hips are rocking mindlessly, and he is fucking himself down onto Jim’s face, riding his mouth for just a little more…a little deeper. For his part, Jim only encourages this inconsiderate behavior, moaning indecently as he gives and gives, as if Oswald is the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“Jim!” Oswald cries eventually, forcing himself to slow; he can’t stop completely—he _can’t._ “Please, do something. I need it; I need you.”

Jim withdraws in phases, like it pains him to give up the ground they’ve set fire to, kissing a path backward from Oswald’s entrance and over the bare patch of skin that leads to his sack, nuzzling his way upward until he can lean his forehead against Oswald’s hip. His hands never stop moving, caressing up and down the length of Oswald’s legs and lower back.

Finally, Oswald can take a few steps back and see Jim’s face—eyes out of focus, lips swollen and wet—and the sight causes his cock to pulse with want. It’s almost as if he is outside of his body, watching with thrilling anticipation as one of his hands grab a handful of Jim’s hair to tilt his head back. The other reaches beneath the waist of his skirt and into his panties, wraps around his cock and pulls it free.

Jim’s half-closed eyes narrow in immediately, his pink tongue darting out to lick his lips as Oswald slowly guides himself forward until just the tip is grazing Jim’s chin. He moves it up and down, along Jim’s mouth and chin, fascinated by how the head and shaft catch with each pass over Jim’s pliant lips. He swirls the head over Jim’s mouth next, over and over, before gently pressing it in just a little. Just enough that he can squeeze a drop of precum against Jim’s teeth.

The man is kneeling before him in such supplication that it seems only natural to subjugate him to Oswald’s whims. He lets go of his cock, in favor of gripping the sides of Jim’s head and pulling him forward so that Oswald can rub himself all over Jim’s face, marking him, claiming him as if they were little more than animals.

 Jim groans so prettily, loud and unrestrained, as his hands raise from where’d they’d gone limp at Oswald’s feet to grip his hips with sudden urgency. For a split second, Oswald fears he’s gone too far, caught up in all the things Jim makes him feel and want. Yet, instead of pushing him away, Jim yanks his skirt, panties and all, down to the floor and urges him closer so that he can bury his face in Oswald’s crotch.

“Yeah.” Jim’s breath is coming rapid and short, and Oswald can feel him trembling at every point where they touch. “Fucking use me.”

Oswald sucks in a rough drag of air, his eyes widening, and now he is the one with a tremor as he relinquishes his hold on Jim’s hair, trading it for a soothing caress along Jim’s flushed cheek and neck. Oswald is no stranger to taking what he wants, but this is nowhere near the type of taking he is accustomed to. Further, this is _Jim._ And Oswald doesn’t want to take more from him than the man is willing to give, afraid of causing some untold harm if their desires—for a change—don’t happen to align.

“James,” Oswald says, his voice shaking with how badly he suddenly wants this—whatever the hell _this_ even is. Control?

That doesn’t sound right, and all the better because Oswald wants Jim’s companionship and often, in a more professional sense, his cooperation. But Oswald doesn’t want to control him. He wants Jim _willing_ , and then it clicks.

This is about trust.

Jim is nuzzling him, beseeching, and Oswald is momentarily torn because he is out of his depth and, frankly, he is pretty certain Jim is too. He’s only been having sex for the last nine or so months of his life, but Oswald is no stranger to some of its less outwardly acknowledged dynamics. Fish’s crew made lewd remarks about kinky sex and safe words often enough, but he is now beginning to see the reality beneath the surface of their jokes. There’s likely a conversation they need to have, but Jim is in no frame of mind to participate.

Instead, Oswald grabs Jim’s bangs again so he can force the man to meet his gaze. “Open your mouth,” he orders.

Jim’s shoulders relax as he settles his backside further against his feet, spreading his bent knees a little wider. He looks up at Oswald and opens his mouth. Oswald does his best to hide his shock and contain his own mixed reaction—caught between worry and a desire he’s never before felt. It’s too much to consider, and so he pushes it all aside and focuses on giving Jim what he wants, determined to make himself worthy of such trust.

He starts slowly, guiding the head of his cock just beyond the rim of Jim’s parted lips. “Suck,” he demands, voice barely more than a whisper.

Jim obeys with enthusiasm and Oswald thinks perhaps he should have been more specific because Jim takes it as permission to sink all the way down to the root. Oswald can’t bring himself to complain, however, not when it’s all so good and he knows Jim only wants to please him. The thought alone sends a shiver up his spine that wracks his entire body.

He catches movement from the corner of his eye, sees Jim press the heel of his palm against his crotch and wants to slap himself. He blames the oversight on his lack of preparedness for this situation and says, “It’s alright, Jim. You can touch yourself, I want you to.”

Jim works his pants open just enough to take himself in hand and the moan he looses around Oswald’s cock nearly undoes him. Oswald is beyond intelligible but words spring from his lips regardless as Jim works them both into a frenzy.

“That’s it…feels so good,” Oswald manages between each labored rise and fall of his diaphragm. “So good, Jim. You’re so good to—”

Jim lets out a choked cry, his eyes screwed shut as he works himself even faster. Oswald is taken aback by his reaction before he thinks perhaps he understands it all too well. “Is that what you need?”

Jim groans, mouth still full of Oswald’s cock as he tries to quicken his pace—a diversionary tactic—but Oswald uses his handful of hair to halt his ministrations. Jim refuses to open his eyes, but Oswald can see two thin, shimmering tear tracks running down his face. He releases his hold on Jim’s bangs, smoothing his fingers through the soft strands as he eases himself away. The position isn’t an easy one to assume, but Oswald manages to lower himself astride Jim’s thighs. Partially lost in his own head though he may be, Jim wraps a secure arm around Oswald’s waist, always taking such good care of him.

Oswald presses soothing kisses to Jim’s forehead, his temples, cheeks, and nose as he retrieves a small packet of lube he’d tucked into his corset and tears it open to squeeze its contents into Jim’s unoccupied hand.  His obedient lover takes them in hand, fisting their cocks together and working them steadily back to the brink.

Jim’s eyes are still closed, though his brow is relaxed as he leans his forehead onto Oswald’s shoulder, taking clearly measured breaths. Oswald wraps his arms behind Jim’s neck, rests his chin on over his bowed head.

“It’s true, you know,” Oswald whispers, hips rocking up into Jim’s fist, “You’re so good to me. You treat me so kindly, take such good care of me. How can you not know how good you are, Jim?

Jim lets out another pained groan, his voice wrecked as he pleads, “ _Oz_ …”

“You always make me feel so good.” Oswald steels himself, aware that what he says next will either be exactly what Jim wants to hear, or it will be incredibly awkward for both of them. “You’re—”

Jim’s arm tightens around his waist, his breathing more erratic as he latches onto Oswald’s neck and sucks with bruising intent. Oswald doesn’t know if it’s because Jim is dying to hear the words or dying to avoid them, but Oswald has already decided to go for broke.

It’s easier, anyway, with Jim refusing to meet his gaze, to run his fingers adoringly through Jim’s disheveled hair, and say, “You’re such a good boy for me, James.”

Jim’s reaction is instantaneous. His head shoots up, blue eyes big and wild, mouth open and panting as he comes all over Oswald’s pretty pink corset. That minute tightening of Jim’s grip, the sight of him coming undone, is what sends Oswald over the edge as well, his groans joining with Jim’s until all they can do is breath and hold on.

The world comes back into focus far too soon, his bad leg twinging now that Oswald isn’t too distracted to pay it mind, but he resists. Jim is too quiet, arms wrapped around Oswald’s waist too tightly while he hides his face against Oswald’s neck. Jim has only tried to hide from him once before, the situations all too similar to be ignored. His usually confident lover is deeply ashamed, and Oswald spares a moment of contempt for whoever it was that made Jim feel as if his desires were somehow contemptible.

Oswald is aware that his proclivities are largely considered outside the norm, hence his unwillingness to share it with anyone other than Jim, but there is a big difference between knowing you’re unusual and having someone ruthlessly point it out. He’s been called a freak his entire life, for everything from his nose to his manner of dress, but he considers himself fortunate that Jim is his first lover. However odd others might think his collection of panties is, Jim has only ever accepted and encouraged him. It angers him to see the pain some careless fool has so clearly wrought within someone so exceptional as Jim.

“I’m sorry,” Jim mumbles solemnly against Oswald’s pulse, breaking the silence.

“Whatever are you apologizing for?” Oswald asks, not unkindly. Just, exasperated that Jim can be so accepting of Oswald’s so-called ‘kinks’ yet so disparaging of his own.

“I didn’t mean to…I kinda ruined the mood, I guess.” Jim sighs, and while his demeanor and words indicate calm indifference, it is all belied by the rigid set of his shoulders and neck. Not to mention the glaring lack of eye contact.

Oswald runs his hands up and down Jim’s spine, a soothing gesture he picked up from the man himself. It is different to be the one offering such comfort for a change, but Oswald is happy to finally be afforded an opportunity to give back. He wishes there were time to choose his words more precisely, but he can already feel Jim preparing to withdraw, the longer Oswald says nothing, ready to bottle this up as he is wont to do and sweep it under the rug.

“But you were beautiful,” Oswald blurts, “and I liked…using you.” His delivery is unrefined but honest and maybe that’s what Jim needs because he stays put, waiting to hear what else Oswald has to say. “Please don’t misunderstand, but I think we need to have a conversation. One where you tell me what you like when you want me to use you, because the lights were on but most of you wasn’t home, and maybe…we choose a safe word?

“Because I may be clever, but I don’t like guessing when it’s this important, when it’s a matter of possibly harming you. I don’t need you to explain why you like it—I couldn’t begin to explain to _myself_ why I like the things I do. Things others wouldn’t understand,” he gestures to his discarded skirt and panties a few inches away. “Case in point. It’s enough for me that it makes you feel good, because that’s all I want when we’re together. You don’t have to keep it from me, Jim, or apologize for it. I love you. I could never think less of you.”

“Oz, I…”

For a moment, the way Jim’s shoulders shudder and shake makes Oswald think Jim is laughing, in that quiet way he sometimes does, but then there’s a ragged breath against his neck followed by a wet, miserable cough.

It’s a sob.

Because Jim is crying.

Oswald has never seen Jim cry, not really, and he finds it disturbing. Not because he is disgusted, but because Jim is a master of compartmentalization and control. Unlike Oswald, who is unpracticed at quelling his more intense emotions, Jim is capable of being emotionally sundered and choosing whether or not to let it rule him. It’s as if he takes a picture of his feelings and then sets it aside for later analysis, like he would a crime scene.  He has ticks and tells, of course, but the depth of Jim’s reaction to any given stimuli is typically impossible to determine.

Which is why this outburst is so disconcerting. Oswald refuses to contradict himself by asking Jim to explain why it’s so difficult to let himself ask for these things—what’s a little hair-pulling and praise between lovers—though he wants to, desperately. Instead, Oswald holds him through it, ignoring the growing discomfort of their position until Jim manages to compose himself.

When he does, his hand slides down to Oswald’s bad knee, massaging. “This can’t be good for you, baby,” he says, wiping his face on his sleeve.

Oswald wants to reach out to him, clean him up with his own hands, but he senses that Jim needs a little space. So, Oswald lets Jim reach over and retrieve his discarded robe, grateful as the material slides over his skin where’s begun to chill. He then slowly maneuvers them, so he can slide Oswald gently from his lap until he is sitting, back against the couch with his legs stretched out in front of him. Jim tucks himself back into his pants, then sets about rubbing Oswald’s right foot and ankle, working steadily up to his knee and thigh.

“Better?” he asks, trying and failing to seem okay. Oswald can tell that Jim is still embarrassed, however, he suspects it has more to do with the crying than the sex.

Oswald takes in Jim’s miserably slumped shoulders, and he has to fix this. “Come here, please, Jim.”

“We should really get you cleaned u—”

“James,” Oswald interrupts, his tone almost taking the same edge he uses to command his underlings. Almost. It gets Jim’s attention, at least, and Oswald gestures to the empty space at his left. “Please, sit.”

Jim runs his hand over his pensive mouth, something he does when he’s frustrated and is trying very hard not to snap. Oswald knows Jim uses anger as a shield, he respects it, but he doesn’t want Jim using a shield against him in their home.

This house.

Oswald’s home.

Now he is frustrated with himself. “Wait,” Oswald says, before Jim can reluctantly follow his previous directive. “There’s—in the table by the kitchen, inside the drawer, there’s an envelope. Could you be a dear, and get it for me, before you sit down?”

Jim raises an eyebrow but climbs to his feet. “Sure.” 

Oswald has about forty-five seconds to acknowledge his panic, then Jim is back, folding himself down to sit at Oswald’s left shoulder. He hands the envelope over, and Oswald takes it with trembling fingers. He inhales deeply, before turning enough that he can put his arm up over the seat of the couch behind Jim’s shoulders.

“Forgive me for being redundant, but before I open this up and we change the subject entirely—please, don’t be ashamed. Of anything. Not with me.”

The tension seems to bleed out of Jim and he slumps to the side and hangs his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I—”

“None of that, either,” Oswald gently interjects. “I know it’s difficult to face the things that pain us, but…well, you don’t have to face them by yourself, or pretend they don’t make you hurt.

“I just want you to know that it doesn’t bother me, so you needn’t let it trouble you. I’ll never pressure you to explain anything you aren’t ready to share.”

Jim looks at him, then, eyes watery and jaw tight, and nods. He leans forward to press a chaste kiss to Oswald’s lips, then points at the envelope. “So, what’s that?”

Oswald slowly unfolds the seal, trying to exhibit a calm he is having trouble fully grasping. “This,” he finally replies, plucking the tissue-wrapped contents from inside, “is something I’ve been meaning to give to you for a while. I just…Well, I wasn’t sure you’d want it. I’ll understand if you don’t, truly, you don’t have to accept it. I just…”

“Oswald,” Jim says gently, saving him from his own rambling, and holds out a hand.

Oswald nods, dithers for just an instant longer, before gingerly handing it over. He watches, rapt, as Jim unwraps the tissue paper, his eyes widening when he sees what Oswald has given him.

Jim’s gaze snaps to Oswald as he asks, “Is this…?”

“A key,” Oswald confirms, “to the house.” He gestures to the walls around them, then hurriedly adds, “It’s clean. I don’t…handle business here any longer.” Oswald chuckles nervously. “You know that.”

 Oswald moves his gaze to his own lap; the silence between them as Jim contemplates his answer is deafening. He should not have given Jim the key yet. He has mis-stepped. To his utter horror, nervous, his mouth opens again and begins to babble.

“It would just be convenient, if I’m not here, so you can still come in and make yourself at home. Of course, you could bring a few more things over, too—in case you want to stay for more than a couple of days sometime. It’s not that big a deal, really. Though, I do understand it has certain implications and you’d probably be right to refuse it, now that I think about it. I shouldn’t have presumed—”

He stops, shocked, when he hears the tell-tale jingle of a key ring. Slowly, he turns his head to see Jim winding the key onto his set, right next to the one for his own apartment. Jim raises his head when it’s attached, meeting Oswald’s eyes as he says, “It makes sense.”

Oswald swallows, his lips trembling with the effort to keep them closed, and nods.

“Come on.” Jim smiles as he stands, reaching his hands down for Oswald to take. “Think you can make it upstairs now?”

Oswald grins, suddenly overjoyed, as he allows Jim to pull him up. “That sounds lovely, actually.”

Jim pecks him on the lips once more, before picking up Oswald’s panties and skirt and tidying the parlor, ever the gentleman. Oswald remembers the snow globe then, and quickly retrieves it from the end table. As they climb the stairs, he thinks back to his earlier words: _It’s not that big a deal._

Oswald is relying heavily on the rail after the night’s events, his other hand occupied by Jim’s gift, while Jim patiently matches his stride with a hand at the small of his back.

This is how he wants to spend the rest of his life, he thinks.

With Jim.

It’s a really, really big deal.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment or a kudo on your way out if you enjoyed the story. <3 <3


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